Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “We are going?”

  “God willing, we are going!”

  She beamed. “So is everything in order for the service tonight?”

  “It is. I just need to step down to church around five o’clock and see how the greening party is coming along.” He pushed his chair back and rose from the table. “Killer soup, my dear!”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Absolutely. At midnight, make sure you’re in the front pew where you usually sit when I celebrate.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He leaned down and took her chin in his hand and kissed her, lingering. “I like to see your eyelashes go up and down and the little stars come out of you.”

  It was a beautiful tree.

  Over the years, he’d had white pine, cedar, blue spruce, and Fraser fir. Fraser fir was his favorite, by far, though he harbored a deep affection for cedar.

  Neither he nor Cynthia had any special ornament collections, just the motley assortment that had come their way and escaped being smashed during their collective moves. But look at it! It was glorious, the best in years, and the colored lights were perfection; he was a sucker for colored lights.

  The day had begun upside down, but God in His mercy had righted it, and he was a happy man. He lay back on the pillow, which was faintly scented with wisteria, pulled the blanket over him, and listened to his dog snoring under the wing chair. The smell in the room! That raw, green, living scent that the overcivilized got to relish only once a year. . . .

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fragrance as if starved.

  “Over yonder by th’ fence post—how ’bout that ’un?”

  “It’s too bent on top. The star might fall off.”

  “How ’bout this ’un right here? We ’bout t’ walk right into this ’un.”

  The smell of woods and winter pasture, the crunch of hoarfrost under their feet, the stinging cold on their faces, the feel of the sled rope in his hand, and Peggy with her head wrapped in a red kerchief . . .

  “I like that one,” he said, pointing.

  “Yo’ mama say don’t point.”

  “How’m I supposed to show you where it’s at?”

  “Don’t say ‘where it’s at,’ say ‘where it is.’ Talk to me ’bout how to reco’nize it.”

  “See the one with the wide branches at the bottom and the broom sage growing around it? Over by that ol’ stump?”

  “Oh, law, child, that cedar tree take two strong men t’ chop down—we jus’ a bony woman an’ a baby boy.”

  “I’m not a baby.” He stomped his foot to drive this truth home. Would she never stop calling him that?

  “Oh, you right, I forgot you ain’t a baby, an’ don’t stomp yo’ foot at me, little man. You hear what I say?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s better. Pick yo’self another tree.”

  “But that’s the best one of any. Besides, Mama likes a big tree.”

  “You right. She do.”

  “It would make her smile.” That should do the trick; Peggy wanted as much as he did to make his mother smile.

  Peggy shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted at the tree.

  He pulled on Peggy’s skirt. “Will Mama get well?” He’d been afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

  “She gettin’ well ever’ minute we stand here talkin’. Sure as you’re born, she goin’ to get well.”

  Peggy laid her hand on his shoulder; he could tell by the way she touched him that she was telling the truth.

  “We’ll get Rufe t’ chop it, then. I’ll see can I find ’im.”

  He looked up at the tall, slender woman whom he knew to be capable of anything. “We could prob’bly do it ourselves, Peggy . . . just you an’ me.”

  “You know what you is?”

  “What?” He was relieved that she didn’t look angry with him.

  “Th’ mos’ tryin’est little weasel I ever seen.”

  Peggy stumped ahead with the axe in her hand. Her dress and apron were the same color as the winter gold of the broomstraw, her kerchief a slash of crimson against the gray and leafless trees.

  “Pick up yo’ feet, then, let’s see can we do this thing! Lord Jesus, you got t’ help us, that ol’ tree be a hun’erd foot tall!”

  “Tall as a mountain!” he shouted into the stinging cold.

  “High as th’ sky!” whooped Peggy.

  They had dragged the huge tree home on the sled, its greenness dark and intense in its passage through the winter woods. When Rufe made a stand for it and stood it in the parlor, he and Peggy were dismayed to see that it wasn’t as high as the sky, after all; it reached only halfway up the parlor wall.

  Days later, he still smelled the sharply resonant odor of the resin that smeared his hands and clothes; the scent was there even after his bath in the washtub on the night they trimmed the tree.

  “Look at that boy eat fried chicken!” said Reverend Simon at their small Christmas Eve dinner. “You’re making a proper Baptist out of him, Madelaine!”

  His mother smiled. But his father did not.

  When he came downstairs on Christmas morning, the tree was there, shining with colored bulbs and festooned with ornaments and tinsel. His father was wearing a smoking jacket, though he never smoked, and there were the presents waiting to be opened, and something hidden behind the davenport. . . .

  When he placed the Babe in the manger, he saw what he’d desperately hoped for—the light returning to his mother’s eyes, the light that shone like the star on top of the great and benevolent cedar.

  “Merry Christmas!” he and his parents chorused in unison.

  He raced at once to the sideboard and brought the shepherds to the manger, displacing a cow and a donkey to give them a better view, while his father fetched from the bookcase the men who had journeyed so long to the star.

  After the long month of waiting, the scene was complete.

  Certainly he hadn’t known it then, but the blue bicycle that he discovered behind the davenport had something of the wonder of the Child in it—it was yet another miraculous gift, mimicking the far greater Gift. He’d been beside himself with joy.

  There was no way he could tell Tommy, of course—for what if Tommy hadn’t gotten a bike, or anything at all?

  “What is it, Timothy?” His mother sat in the blue-painted kitchen chair by the window, shucking oysters with Peggy.

  “Tommy maybe didn’t get nothing,” he said, forlorn in spite of himself.

  “Anything.” His mother’s voice was tender; she reached for him and drew him close.

  “Look here!” Peggy suddenly stood and peered through the window. “Look who’s comin’ up th’ road!”

  In the bright afternoon light of Christmas Day, Tommy Noles wobbled up their drive on two wheels of his own.

  Tommy had a bike, and the light had returned to his mother’s eyes.

  Until he married Cynthia, it had been the single happiest Christmas of his life.

  Between his nap and the trek to the church, more than an inch of snow had fallen, which would undoubtedly inspire the merry greening party in their labors.

  But, alas, he found no greening party, merry or otherwise. He found instead that he must unlock the double front doors and let himself in. As the key turned, the bells began to toll.

  Bong . . .

  The moment he stepped into the narthex, he smelled the perfume of fresh pine and cedar, and the beeswax newly rubbed into the venerable oak pews.

  Bong . . .

  And there was the nave, lovely in the shadowed winter twilight, every nuance familiar to him, a kind of home; he bowed before the cross above the altar, his heart full. . . .

  Bong . . .

  The greening of the church was among his favorite traditions in Christendom; someone had worked hard and long this day!

  Bong . . .

  Every windowsill contained fresh greenery, and a candle to be lighted before the service . . . the n
ave would be packed with congregants, eager to hear once more the old love story. . . .

  Bong . . .

  Families would come together from near and far, to savor this holy hour. And afterward, they would exclaim the glad greeting that, in earlier times, was never spoken until Advent ended and Christmas morning had at last arrived.

  Call him a stick-in-the-mud, a dinosaur, a fusty throwback, but indeed, jumping into the fray the day after Halloween was akin to hitting, and holding, high C for a couple of months, while a bit of patience saved Christmas for Christmas morning and kept the holy days fresh and new.

  He knelt and closed his eyes, inexpressibly thankful for quietude, and found his heart moved toward Dooley and Poo, Jessie and Sammy . . . indeed, toward all families who would be drawn together during this time.

  “Almighty God, our heavenly Father . . .” He prayed aloud the words he had learned as a young curate, and never forgotten. “ . . . who settest the solitary in families: We commend to thy continual care the homes in which thy people dwell. Put far from them, we beseech thee, every root of bitterness, the desire of vainglory, and the pride of life. Fill them with faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness. Knit together in constant affection those who, in holy wedlock, have been made one flesh. Turn the hearts of the parents to the children, and the hearts of the children to the parents; and so enkindle fervent charity among us all, that we may evermore be kindly affectioned one to another; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  In the deep and expectant silence, he heard only the sound of his own breathing.

  “Amen,” he whispered.

  The snow had stopped entirely; the snowplow operators could stay snug in their beds tonight, after all.

  He unlocked the door of the Oxford and felt for the fourth switch on the plate. Deep within the large building, used originally as an in-town horse stable, the light came on in the back room and spilled through the open door.

  His heart beat up—this was the day, the moment he’d worked and waited for. He moved quickly along the darkened aisle between the tables and chairs, the chests and sideboards.

  Fred, Lord bless him, had offered to put the figures in boxes, enabling him to carry more pieces at once. That good fellow was his Christmas angel, if ever there was one.

  He caught his breath sharply, and stood motionless at the door.

  There were the boxes . . .

  And there, on the table in the center of the room, was the stable, sheltering the Holy Family.

  “Hark! The herald angels sing,

  ‘Glory to the newborn King;

  Peace on earth and mercy mild,

  God and sinners reconciled!’ ”

  “They’re gearing up!” said Mamy Phillips to her cat, Popeye.

  Mamy, who lived in a small house next to Lord’s Chapel, couldn’t imagine why people would want to go to church in the middle of the night. She did confess however, that as she became increasingly wakeful in her old age, the midnight service was something to look forward to, as, however faint it might be, she could hear the singing.

  “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.

  Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;

  The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

  For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,

  While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wondering love.

  O morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,

  And praises sing to God the King,

  And peace to men on earth.”

  Mamy pulled the top window sash down an inch or two. Then, by cupping her hand around her right ear and holding her breath for long periods, she was able to catch every word that floated out upon the frozen air.

  “While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

  All seated on the ground,

  The angel of the Lord came down,

  And glory shone around. . . .”

  When the congregants poured out into the night through the red doors, a fresh snow was swirling down in large, feathery flakes, anointing collars and hats, scarves and mittens. Two people put their heads back and stuck out their tongues and felt the soft, quick dissolve of the flakes.

  “Merry Christmas, Father!”

  “Merry Christmas, Esther, Gene! God bless you! And there’s Hessie, merry Christmas to you, Hessie!”

  “Why, Tom Bradshaw! Merry Christmas! What brings you back to the sticks?”

  Laughter. Vaporizing breath. The incense of snuffed candles wafting on the air . . .

  “Merry Christmas, Cynthia!”

  “Merry Christmas, Hope, how lovely you look! And Scott, dear—merry Christmas!”

  “They’re goin’ home, now,” Mamy Phillips said to Popeye. “They’ve sung themselves out, I expect.”

  She was relieved, actually, for even with the sash down, it was a strain to try to hear every word through a stone wall and a hedge. Time and again, they’d invited her to attend services over there, but she was still thinking about it.

  She locked the sash and went to the kitchen, where she crumbled saltines into a glass of milk. Then she set down a saucer of milk for Popeye, wondering if she would ever understand what all that church business was about, anyway.

  They sat on the study sofa, catching their breath.

  “I’m exhausted!” she said, taking his hand.

  “Ditto. Thoroughly.”

  “Happiness is very demanding.”

  “Agreed!” Thank God for his robe and slippers. The craziness was past; Christmas had come!

  She put her head on his shoulder. “The angel tree was one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever done. So many families came in for their bags of food . . . They say more people will sit down to Christmas dinner in Mitford and Wesley than ever before.”

  “Well done,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks. Everyone worked so hard. I’d like to do it again next year, and the next.”

  He kissed the top of her head.

  “Did I tell you about the little girl who walked five miles to fetch the two bags of groceries for her family?”

  “Tell me.” He put his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the peace and privilege of nothing more to be done.

  “There was no way on earth she could have carried them home, so I drove her; I can’t tell you what terrible living conditions I saw. Timothy, if we were younger, I’d love for us to adopt.”

  “You may get your wish. Dooley is thinking of changing his name to Kavanagh.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “I asked him to think about it a while longer. It’s a serious step.”

  “You’re always wise, Timothy.”

  “Not always.”

  “When do you think you’ll tell him about the money from Miss Sadie?”

  “I don’t know. He’ll be twenty-one in February, that may be the time. Her letter asks us not to tell him ’til he can shoulder the responsibility.”

  “You’ll know when. God will tell you when.”

  He glanced at the clock above the mantel. Good grief! “Shall we do it?”

  “Let’s!”

  They bolted from the sofa and sprinted along the hall. “Okay,” he said when they reached the lamp table. “Stop and close your eyes. Promise not to look.”

  “I promise!”

  He took her by the hand and led her to the door of the living room. Though he’d personally set out each of the figures and arranged them near the manger at the base of their tree, he saw it all with new and wondering eyes. It was the light, perhaps, richer and more radiant in the deep of night.

  “Now,” he said.

  He had done it all in order to see her face, and, instantly, she made it all worthwhile. “Timothy,” she whispered. “Oh!”

  He put his arm around her waist and drew her to him.

  “Merry
Christmas,” he said, shy and solemn.

  “Oh,” she said again. “I can’t find words. . . .”

  Barnabas trotted up the hall and stood by them, wagging his tail.

  “Does this lovely crèche have anything to do with your long weeks at the Oxford?”

  “It does.”

  Tears coursed along her cheeks. “Did you in some way . . . that is, what did you do, exactly?”

  “I painted it.”

  “You painted it?”

  “Fred helped. He stippled the sheep. We fixed an ear here and there. And a hand. He helped with the camel, too.”

  “The camel!”

  “Back there. In the bushes, sort of.”

  She dropped to her hands and knees and examined the little colony of shepherds and wise men and animals and the reverent and amazed parents kneeling by the Child. She held her hand up to him, and he took it and knelt beside her.

  “I can’t believe my eyes, Timothy. Everything, every creature, is so lovely, so . . . real, somehow.”

  “I was plenty nervous about doing it, about getting it right. After all, you’re the artist in the family.”

  She stared into each face. “I love this angel! How did you decide on these wonderful colors for her robe and gown?”

  “We looked in a book,” he said, feeling like a schoolboy.

  “And this dear old shepherd, with his lovely bald head . . .”

  “Autobiographical!”

  “But the eyes on this camel!” She hooted with laughter. “He looks up to something, don’t you think?”

  “That camel was the straw that nearly broke my back! We worked on the eyes, but, alas, what can I say? Fred and I are not Leonardos.”

  “This is so exciting! I’m discovering a whole other part of my husband.”

  He shrugged, speechless, thrilled to the core with her praise.

  She rose on her knees and put her arms around his neck and looked at him, beaming. “You’ve found something fresh and wonderful in yourself; God has given you a brand-new gift.”

  “No, not a gift.” He was blushing. “But He did help me do it. It was hard.”